


The Roads that Divide Us

by EasyCoTroopers



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Hitchhiking, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-25 04:09:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14968793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EasyCoTroopers/pseuds/EasyCoTroopers
Summary: After the war, Babe Heffron finds himself all alone and miserable, only longing for the medic he had found years ago, stitching his minor wound up with care, treating him as a wounded soldier. To escape his sombriety and the blue place that is his apartment, Babe decides to do something he wouldn't normally do; hitchike. Hitchike all the way to Louisiana.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [trailsofpaper (Sanwall)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanwall/gifts).



> This work was written by @kuurihn on Tumblr.

_ December 1 _ _ st _ _ , 1948 _

It was the start of a new month, the very end of an old year. The days grew darker and shorter, the last drops of luminous and cold, orange tinted sunlight were pressed out of the year like mother nature herself wrung it out of the darkening azure sky like dirty water out of a dishcloth. You could feel the days holding their breath; as it was struggling to continue and just wanted the last thirty days over with. 

Time was rushing its turn, storming past busy bypassers and hoarding them together in one big christmas rush, just to sweep them off their feet again. Everyone was their own protagonist in their own story.

Through the frosted windows in a cramped apartment in South Philly, you could see the last sunlight of the day casting its streak on the old and cracked drywall right next to the hardwood bookshelf the tenant had found at a flea market the previous summer for two dollars. It was sparse; only a few dusty books had made it to the shelf, radiating a somewhat abandoned atmosphere through the already blue-tinted, cold apartment.

The bed was made with military precision, the heating was broken. At the table sat a freckled, hazel-eyed redhead. His hair seemed to be the only color present in his apartment, and was a strong contrast to his pale, starved and hollow face. 

Eating dinner alone, the light was turned off and just there, in just that moment, time seemed to stand still.

Edward Heffron had sunken into nothing after the war, just like everyone else affected. All the Americans, all the English, the Russian, the French and the Belgians, yes even the Germans have all experienced their share of horror in their time. 

The gramophone was the only thing producing sound, sending an eerie waltz piercing through the thin and cold atmosphere. 

Everything had become routine for him after he bought his own apartment; wake up, go to work, eat dinner and go to bed. 

Greeting the same people as he walked down the street on his way to work. It didn’t matter if the burgundy maple leaves were rustling around in the wind, if the snow had covered the edges and the rooftops and his breath seemed like steam or if the birds were chirping under a blue summer sky. The people he knew still seemed like strangers to him and that scared him. He felt like an empty shell, fragile and pale.

He was yearning after something, someone. The touch of warm, steady and calm hands. The sound of the distinct southern accent he had known to love. 

Sometimes, just sometimes, in the cold winter evenings, he would lie in bed and then he would be back in his cold foxhole in Belgium, with a the sleeping medic curled up against him in an attempt to share body heat for the night.

He is scared of the feelings he has for the man, he still is now. 

He know that he is a criminal, he has sinned against the Lord. He is forever in doubt with himself and his conscience for how could love possibly be a crime? How could the feel of his lovers skin, heated from arousal, be a sin. How could the breathy moans that escape his lips when the two of them collide, the sound of skin slapping against skin, the heavenly feeling of ecstacy the touch of his love leaves, be a crime. How could something so beautiful be so dangerous. He would often slip away to one of those daydreams and slide his hands down his trousers and get lost in his heated delusions, only to snap back to reality in the cold, cramped apartment on 27 th  floor in South Philly.

He was killing himself, and he was aware of that.

Heffron would often lay sleepless night after nights, thinking and reliving the darkness that surrounded his memories from France, Holland, Belgium and Germany. He would stare into the air, expecting the support beams of his apartment explode from German artillery strikes like the snow-covered pines did in Bastogne, he would helplessly watch as his friends died in front of him in his hallucinations.

During the nights he somehow fell asleep, he would wake up shaking and screaming with a feeling of not being able to go on and an inescapable fear.

He would escape out of his imprisoning apartment and up on the roof, where the sun’s rays had just pierced the skyline and shone a cold morning light on the city in which he somewhat lived in. The steam rising from the buildings like each of these concrete monsters were a living, individual organism breathing. Cold gusts of wind would hit him and bring a fresh smell of morning dew and carbon dioxide. In all this, he would find his anchor. 

The thing that made him go on; another day promising a new beginning. But sometimes the break of dawn just wasn’t enough. 

He would breathe; and try to tell himself that he was fine.

* * *

 

_ December 25 _ _ th _ _ , 1944 _

Eugene Roe tried to find a grip in reality. All of this lately had been so overbearing, so unrealistically horrible for him to comprehend fully; he would often pinch himself thinking he was dreaming some god-forsaken nightmare. But all of it was real, all too real. 

His countless trips to Bastogne had become more and more of a ritual, than a duty. He tried, just tried, to make it through; tend to patients, be at acute aid and watch as many helplessly died under his hands. Blood had dried under his nails and in his cuticles, had stained his hands red like red wine on a pale, satin cloth. All day, everyday the same; morphine, plasma and gauze and scissors. 

Supplies were running low.

Every death and every soul leaving a body would add a drop into his cup, and needless to say, the cup was almost on the brim of flowing over. But he continued because his God, country and friends were relying on him. He couldn’t afford to think like that.

“What’s our supply of morphine left?” He asked.

The snow outside fell gracefully like feathers unaffected by windy currents, followed by a steady hum of busy people, all doing their own share in the war. Every once in a while, a blood-freezing scream would shriek through the air, or a subtle grunt or moan could be heard from the still healing patients. 

“Enough for three days, with this situation” Replied the African nurse, Augusta.

He could almost not bear the pain. With each passing day, he prayed for forgiveness from his  _ grandmére  _ that he couldn’t do enough, that he didn’t save enough. 

He was no  _ traiteur,  _ he was only a cajun combat medic from Louisiana. He was no saint nor was he the center of the universe, he was merely a tiny, disposable piece in a game of war. At the end of the day, he was only human; there was only so much he could do. 

He would find his needed rest, smoking in the outskirts of the social circle that formed when warm grub was served at noon or dinner. Then he would listen to anything the men’s blabbering and blue lips had to offer. Gossip, jokes, advice, stories and even military strategics.The medic would eye a certain redhead that sat inside the circles and jabbed about anything between heaven and earth .

The cajun’s dark eyes were illuminated by the orange glow of the cigarette bud while he observed. The constellating freckles on his nose bone, cheeks and upper lip. The fiery red hair that stuck up beneath the standard issued, green paratrooper helmet.

Every now and then, the redhead would steal glances back with his hazel eyes, trapping Roe in a trance of what seems like years, but only lasts a part of a second.

Babe.

It was christmas day, a holy day of the Lord and he was sitting in the middle of everything, having the most sinful thoughts he could muster. He knew that homosexuality was against the principles of God, but he couldn’t just brush off the encounter that happened between them in that cramped hotel room in Holland a couple of months ago.

They had not spoken a word of it afterwards, not shared a single breath or mutter, that could bring back the visions that was imprinted on the insides of Roe’s eyes. They pretended to forget, but how could they?

They could both hear the tension dripping from their lips when they spoke, eager to latch onto each other's skin like they did in the heat of the moment that time. Gene would have to restrain his hands whenever he dealt medically with Babe, so that they would not rush up his shirt and caress him like he had done that night.

He wanted to be independent and confident like never before. Gene wanted more than ever just to be able to walk up to him and pull him into a rough, heated and captivating kiss, with no thought for the prejudice of the others in front of them.

He had dreamt of it. Roe had dreamt of him countless of nights in a row, to free the tension without consequences, just walk up to him and take him like he never had before. They had only been together once; one forbidden, stupid night. 

It was too late; Roe had tasted the water, sweet and intoxicating as wine, and now he was finding himself falling back, wanting to quench his thirst. But he knew he couldn’t. He had to be acting mature and professional in a time like this.

Still, he had a hard time not forgetting what had happened between those two, as spontaneous as it was, he could not stop thinking about that there had been feelings involved that night. It was just too sensual to be the ordinary one night stand as he knew them. It was like a silken bond had formed between them after it.

Often when he was alone, Gene would breathe out and think in-depth and relive the night over and over again like a record being rewound on a loop. He would ghost his hands over his throat, where Heffron had held his firm grip. Bare-chested in the mirror, he could see the scars that had healed and the now faint dark spots from where the redhead’s lips had met his skin, glistening with sweat. 

After all of his vanity and self-voyeurism, he was left with an empty feeling of mixed emotions. Lust, because he had played with fire and now was looking for another adrenaline kick. Anxiety, because he did not understand these feelings he had, and what consequences it would give. Regret, for he had sinned against his god, but it had felt oh-so good to be a sinner, just that one time.

Love that we cannot have is the one that lasts the longest, hurts the deepest and feels the strongest.

* * *

 

_ May 13 _ _ th _ _ , 1949 _

Babe woke up with a different feeling that day. After quitting his job a week earlier from the crippling feeling of not being able to go on, he had taken some time to collect his thoughts and clean up his life. 

The sun hit his face through the window, the birds were chirping outside and the apartment was warmed up from the late spring sun. He sat up, ruffled his hands through his hair. The empty, cold feeling that had been gnawing his insides for so long, were now replaced with a feeling of warmth and fullness. 

How could he had been so blind? It was so obvious, he just needed the quiet and peace around him to make a real decision. 

Deep down, he knew.

He looked back at the many restless nights he had before, and then he never really knew what was causing his emotions to trigger the dreaded insomnia he had. The reason for him not being able to connect with anyone or to hold a steady relationship, the reason for him sitting alone in a cold, isolated and contrived cell during the many years that flew by after the war. At last, he knew.

He knew what could help him get a hold on his crippling shell-shock, what could hold him and warm his frozen and empty shell up and make him feel emotions again.

Babe got up from his unmade bed and walked over to the window, where the sun shone him blindingly warm in the eyes. Underneath him, the city was buzzing with life. A beautiful landscape of industry, steam and people. 

The farmer’s market downtown exploded in a variety of colours from different fruits, vegetables and other foods. Jams, honey, Canadian maple syrup, smoked and salted meats, imported cheeses, eggs, nuts and a variety of candies. 

He could almost smell the aroma of freshly baked bread from the baker’s, as the delivery boy loaded and mounted his delivery bicycle to deliver bread to people whomst he did not know, and who lived lives he didn’t live nor care for.

At the view from his twenty seventh floor apartment, he felt like the king of the world. A feeling surged through him, a feeling he hadn’t felt since he arrived home from Austria. He could feel it surging through his bones down to the fine, transparent hairs on his forearms illuminated golden by the morning sun.

He could do anything. He could do any reckless thing at the mercy of his willpower. And he did. 

He took his worn out canvas backpack, stuffed a few starched and basic shirts in, with a roadmap and a compass. Babe went over to his sparse bookshelf and gave it a decent search. One single book stood out from all the others, with it’s worn out hardback, rough canvas cover and yellowed pages, he had owned this for ages. His favourite book; The Hobbit by J. R. R. Tolkien.

It had been with him everywhere; he had read it while shipbuilding in his early career before the war, he had read it while being whipped around by drill sergeants in jump school, and he even jumped into Europe with it. It was to him what amphetamine was to starving soldiers. Once you had opened the pages, you could not lay it from you again until it was finished. And then you would close the book, flip the pages and start over again. 

In his canvas bag, he put what little cash he had left down with the shirts. The coins made a metallic sound as they fell down to add a bit of extra weight to it. He had counted, and he had about two hundred and fifty dollars left, so that would do. 

Babe then dropped a few cans of food into it, just enough to hold for a couple of days, and lastly, as his friend Perconte taught him, a bar of soap and a toothbrush.

Babe gave himself the freedom of buying an apple, as he went down the street southwards, hoping to pick up a ride on the way to take him with them. The warming sun was hitting his nose bone and warming his knees underneath his bermuda-length brown colored shorts. The white shirt on him was identical to all the others in his rucksack.

He didn’t know what made a young couple stop for a skinny, ghost looking stranger walking down the road with his right thumb up, looking for a ride. Maybe it was because he smiled for once, something he hadn’t done in a while now. 

“Where are you headed?” Asked the handsome, young man behind the steering wheel. Babe didn’t hesitate to answer;

“New Orleans”

“Hop in. We are unfortunately not going that far, but i can drive you to the trains where you can hop a southbound train if you’d like” Babe jumped in, grateful for the favour.

And so he began his trip all the way to Louisiana.

* * *

 

_ May 13 _ _ th _ _ , 1949 _

After Babe had been dropped off at the tracks and said his goodbyes and thank yous, he took a bite of the apple he had bought earlier. It gave a satisfying crunch as he bit into it, and the acidity of the green granny smith apple exploded in his mouth.

He hadn’t thought he would miss the taste of an apple that much, until he had finished the whole thing in under a minute, and wiped the juice off his mouth with the back of his hand, feeling slightly satisfied.

He now found himself alone. Some dust flew by as the breeze picked up, only adding to the character of the silent rail station. Only the sound of moving trains were heard, no people nor the sound of birds singing, only the steam and engines were heard as some kind of white noise in the background.

A southbound cargo train was starting up it’s engine, and you could soon hear the known  _ thunk thunk thunk  _ as the wheels started to move slowly. Babe walked in its direction, picking up speed as the wheels began to move faster, sending him into a slow jog. 

He reached up for the open slide door of a semi-filled car, grabbed the sidebar and hoisted himself up onto the train. He felt the gravel from the tracks sweep by under his feet as he maneuvered up in the car completely. 

Never had he ever thought in his entire life, that he would have gone train hopping for a guy once, and it was comparable at an uncanny degree to the train ride he had taken on his way with all the other troopers for the boat to England, long before d-day had occured. 

That day had been full of a strange mix of tension, happiness and anxiety. Some were jolly and happy to go  _ over there _ for the glorious purpose of defending democracy and later the world from fascism. Others were more nervous -those were usually the draftees- and anxious of the thought of leaving the safe havens of America and go into the hells of the uprising war, but they were hiding it from the others with smiles and jokes, because being called a coward was worse than dying in battle.

Babe found himself a good space on the floor in the now fast moving train car. Outside the windows, he could see his childhood home, Philadelphia, zooming past him, then behind him like a literal metaphor of a past he’s leaving behind.

He’s now on his own, starting his own spontaneous adventure to the south with a mixed feeling of regret and joy.  _ This was really happening _ , he thought. It was like a dream and a nightmare come true, and Babe was anxious in both the good and the bad way. The lukewarm air filled the car in a breeze through the door of the car, and ruffled Babe’s red har, that glowed golden in the morning sun, as it started its journey across the sky. Past him moved blooming cherries and apple trees with white flower petals drizzling on the ground, slowly like a feather, looking like the snow from a christmas landscape in Macy’s. 

For once, he felt lighter than before. Something had happened in his life, finally. He was all right all along, he just needed himself to push that final distance. First and foremost, he needed his Cajun too. He didn’t care about the law or the prejudice of others, because Babe loved the dark eyed, dark haired man, he was just too soon to realize. 

The time sped away as he sat there fantasising, and the motion of the sun and the trees, the grass and the bees became a blur. Babe’s eyes stared into nothingness.

_ Don’t worry, I’m on my way. _

After a few minutes he unpacked the back he had brought on his adventure, and took up the book he had packed. In order to make time go faster, he thought some good reading might help with that. His slightly calloused fingertips brushed against the dusty canvas cover, and he traced the green indented letters, that underneath a mountain ring and towering over a fierce dragon read  _ The Hobbit.  _ He opened the hard cover and paged through the first few blank pages, glowing in the sunlight as they flicked, until he came upon the start of the book, and in his mind, he read peacefully;

_ In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.  _ His eyes ghosted over the pages, as he began to read the book he had read so often, over and over again. Nothing, he thought, nothing beats the feeling of coziness you get, when you hold a good book in your hands.

Babe waited for arrival, as the train moved southward in the states, crossing trails, roads and borders. He felt like an adventurer, exploring the untamed jungles of his own life, mapping the complex landscapes of his own emotions as he went. He was, and always would be a dreamer, though he didn’t let it show often, only to whom he like the most. What, he wondered, is Eugene doing right now?

* * *

 

_ September 24 _ _ th _ _ , 1944 _

A warm glow from a candlelight bathed the small room in golden, contrary from the darkness of the night outside the small window. It was so dark in the evening of that early autumn day, that if you looked out of the glass, you’d be met with an endless, massive void, consuming the lightened reflection of the room like a black hole. Particles of dust were floating in the air around the young pair lying exposed on the small, iron-framed twin bed. It was too hot and dense in the room for probably the both of them, but it was too cold outside to let a draft in, so they remained in their position without bed sheets, finding it just comfortable enough to not give a damn.

This was no ordinary couple by the standards then, you see, the couple were two young men, both in their late teens or early twenties, one light eyed redhead and one with hair as dark as ebony, with two dark, warm orbs glistening in the dim, golden light. The starched sheets crunched under their weight, and the mattress was slightly uncomfortable, with bad springs and little cushion, but they didn’t mind. They were both lying and looking at each other, Eugene in Babe’s arms, naked and happy in the moment. It was if they had found a safe space of peacetime during the ongoing war, because they both had the most peaceful expression on their faces.

Roe was tracing his fingers on circles on the redhead’s freckled back, and hummed something of a christian hymn, not known to Babe, but relaxing anyways. It was something about an angel and a boy. He didn’t feel the wave of sinly guilt that would flood him the next morning, in fear of both not going to the heavens and getting law involved. 

He only focused on the thoughts of the events that night, who were so precious that he feared they faded if he didn’t hold on to them. How sweetly the moans sounded on the Cajun’s lips, how they had clashed together like thunder and lightning. 

Earlier that month, they had jumped into Holland as a part of Operation Market Garden as paratroopers along the British 1st airborne division. The objective was mainly to capture bridges and dams along the Rhine and the Dutch and Belgian waterfront. It had a lucky jumpstart, when the bridge of Waal by Nijmegen was captured, and after that the operation had seemed with a bright future.

But all things lucky has an end. The operation turned awry when the allies failed to capture the bridge over the Rhine at Arnhem, and the result was German counterattack crushing the British 1st Airborne Division.

It added a certain stress on everyone in the company, that the operation had failed. Maybe it added stress on not only soldiers, but on ministers, presidents and nations, too. 

Whatever it was, it could be felt amongst them. This dense, anxious atmosphere clouded them like a thick, San Francisco fog. These low-lying stratus clouds of anxiety was like poison for the company; sooner or later someone would snap.

But everyone has their own coping mechanisms, and Babe had found one, he didn’t know he had. He just needed something to relax, and Roe was it.

He swore, that he’d never fall in love with him, that it was only a one night only thing. Oh how wrong he was.


	2. Chapter 2

_ May 15 _ _ th _ _ , 1949 _

The train had stopped in South Carolina to refuel, before heading back up towards the Midwest. Babe had jumped off a little north of the Georgian city Savannah, when the train had waited for an o.k signal to turn northwards. 

It had taken a little over a day to get there, and this was the closest you could get to Louisiana, before the train started journeying to Ohio, endstation Michigan. That train hopping had already spared Babe a lot of time on his journey to Louisiana. He was awestruck from the feeling of letting go the past, and buzzed from the rush of adrenaline he got, when he thought about what spontaneous mess, he’d gotten himself into.

He ended up thumbing a car, and catching a ride to Savannah, which was a short distance away, so his time in the vehicle was reduced to only a small dozen of minutes. After thanking the driver and getting out of the car, he stepped his first small steps in the city buzzing with life, illuminated by golden sun. 

It was dusty in the city, although not uncomfortably. The specks of dust sheaved and sedated in the golden midsummer Georgia sun only added to the pleasant atmosphere. Having grown up in Philly, Babe was most definitely a city person, although the southern cities had a different feel to them than the ones you could find in New England. 

He breathed it all in, all the newness and the southern charm it had to offer. Never before had he been so alone yet so comfortable, although a part of him was missing, and for that part in particular he was on his way that very minute.

Babe didn’t stay long in Savannah, despite it’s charm and beauty. He found himself a truckload of peaches that was going even more southbound, and got the permission to sit on the load and meet New Orleans halfways. 

That still meant he had to hike in forests and swamps for a few days before he arrived, and then he had to locate Roe, too. He knew the name of the clinic that he worked at, but knowing the address of his lost love was nothing he could do. 

During the ride under the hot Georgia sun, he had a short conversation with the nice truck driver, that had been welcoming enough to give him a ride.

“So what are ya’ about in Orleans?” He said with a southern accent, that was thick like gravy.

Babe smiled, his summer freckles moving around his smile wrinkles, and complimenting the light sunburn he’d gotten.

“I’m seeing my love” He shouted over the coughing engine. The driver gave a laughing scoff.

“Must be a damn fine dame for you to go all the way from Philly to the bayous.”

Something crawled under Babe’s skin from that compliment, but he couldn’t complain because the truck driver had been kind enough to give him a ride, so of course he wouldn’t bother him with that.

He decided to take a nap a good portion of time through the ride, pushing a straw hat he bought at a stand in Savannah down his nose, so he wouldn’t get even more sunburnt, than he already was.

He quickly fell asleep under the fresh green weeping willows, amongst the swamps with the lichens drooping down the trunks of the trees. Bees and other insects were swarming around in the dusty and sunny atmosphere, where everything was tinted in a spring-green light.

Babe enjoyed this part of the country, and wondered why he hadn’t visited it some time before. Maybe because he didn’t have the money, maybe because he didn’t have the time. To be honest, he couldn’t remember it, he couldn’t remember anything from before the war.

When the truck driver woke Babe from his slumber and told him this was his last stop, the sun was setting in a golden orange glow, that reminded him of fresh oranges that would be at the farmer’s market in midtown Philadelphia.

He suddenly felt a surge of homesickness and a sense of loss, when he looked into the sunset. He felt lost, with a crippling anxiety of how lost he was, but he reminded himself why he was here, and for who he was here. He took a deep breath and stepped onto the road, thanked the driver a million times and walked.

The driver had told him about a shelter a little bit of road up, that he could spend the night in. It was commonly used by hitchhikers and wanderers, common people who was not seeking luck in money, but in experiences.

Babe didn’t think much of these types of people, but that didn’t mean he saw them as bad people, because he had, in fact, become one himself. He whistled a cheery tune, as he walked down the road with the darkening sky and the sunset in the horizon.

* * *

 

_May 21_ _ st _ _ , 1949 _

Babe didn’t think much of himself when he wandered down the streets. The soles of his shoes were so torn down, that he could feel the coarse pavement and the textured asphalt underneath his feet. The morning sun was in his eyes, he whistled a cheery tune as he strolled along. It was a song about angels.

About God, about the wind, about the nature. It was a song he had learned from his mother, whilst he was still a child. It helped him get going down the cracked pavement, and the overgrown curb on this spring day in central New Orleans.

The heat was scorching, but the thick moisture in the air made it tolerable. He had gotten a slight tan from his many days of hiking, and the bridge of his nose and his cheeks were covered in new freckles he had gained from the sun.

He now looked like a traveller, and not the skinny, pale city boy from south Philly, that he had started out as. His face was more rugged, his clothes were dirty and he wore a the straw hat he had purchased in Georgia.

He had already been to the clinic where Roe had been working at. It had been white and clean, smelled and felt exactly like a dentist’s office. The doors were made of glass, so the sun struck a stripe on the wall, giving it a warm and fulfilling afternoon aesthetic. It reminded him of his time as a boy back in the day, where he was sent to the dentist at school. He always hated dentists, he always hated the way the white, clean and dry offices were like, furnished always so artificial and static. But this doctor’s office was different, he actually found beauty, calm and grace in it. He had asked if Roe was present, and the small, cute secretary, who had facial proportions of a mouse and bone as fragile as fine china.

“Unfortunately, no. He has a week off right now” She responded with a quiet, squeaky voice, pushing her glasses back up her nose.

“Is there an address then?” Babe tried again “An old friend is visiting.” He said with a smile on his face. 

Now he was here, a few footsteps away from the porch of a tidy, green Louisiana house. His palms were sweaty, as he reached for the polished, brass doorbell and rung it. After some seconds, a person answered.

And as the door gently swung open, a familiar face with dark eyes and ivory hair appeared, with a glowy complexion and a simple style of clothing. It was the person Babe felt like he had known for the entirety of his life.

“Hey there Doc”

  
  
  



End file.
